


Lanterns | Ghost!Jshlatt & Ghost!Wilbur

by AlexandraMariaAnna



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, mcyt
Genre: Gen, ahaha yeaH, and really i just want him and will to hang in the afterlife you know, but yeah shlatt is so underappreciated as both actor and character, can yall see that i really miss earthsmp, catch up, enjoy, forget about the war and stuff, he's doing an amazing job, i'll probably go off more in notes but yeah, i'm also not a native speaker of english so if this sounds off sorry lmao, it's so weird that i felt better writing shlatt than writing wilbur, taking over lmanburg to be the lesser evil from my cold dead hands, you can take the headcannon of shlatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandraMariaAnna/pseuds/AlexandraMariaAnna
Summary: they have eternity to talk things through(i don't know why do I have to say this but this isn't romantic pl e a s e)Loosely inspired by @dontsaynonowords on TikTok, who makes amazing art.
Relationships: Just homies being homies after death, no :)
Kudos: 52





	Lanterns | Ghost!Jshlatt & Ghost!Wilbur

_Good morning._  
_It’s morning?_  
_I believe it is._

It’s always fun to watch Wilbur scurry around limbo like an overactive child, babbling on and on about his son, the city, the people. To Shlatt, there was no need to move about, however; he never got hungry, he never got tired, and he could just look at the sky on which the sun never reached zenith for hours and hours on end. Nothing hurt him, well, physically, and no one bothered him. To be completely honest, even though he felt like he was forgetting something very important from the life he used to lead when his body was tangible and his words didn’t fade into an echo, he felt all right with living in oblivion. It felt…good. Peaceful. Nice.

And he had a feeling that before he passed on, his life was anything but that.

“Hey! Shlatt! Would you be willing to help me out a bit? My hands are full.”  
“Mmm. No. I’m sleeping.”  
“That’s a great joke! We can’t sleep! I love your sense of humor!”

He sat up slowly, squinting his eyes as the light assaulted his empty irises. Wilbur was standing right in front of him, a wide smile on his face, in his arms a comically large amount of iron nuggets, the backpack he procured from god knows where stuffed to the brim with unlit torches. Shlatt’s memory was foggy, but he had a vague idea what Wilbur was trying to imply by glancing between the iron and the man half-sprawled onto a log.

“Do you even know what to do with these? Or are you going to glue it all together until it takes shape, like a feral little man you are?” He sneered, pointing at the little mountain of iron nuggets in Wilbur’s hands. The man – the specter looked at his treasure and laughed timidly.  
“Well, that’s why I’m asking you for help? I found a blueprint in one of the books I grabbed from the overworld, but I haven’t studied it yet…” the iron dropped to the floor with a dull cacophony of thuds, and they rolled around in close proximity of each other, like a semi-solid puddle. “I mean if you don’t want to do it I won’t force you, I just don’t want to waste all this material I got from Tubbo-”  
“You _got_ from Tubbo?”  
“Well, I borrowed them, but I’ll be giving it back in lanterns! If I manage to make them, that is.”  
  
Shlatt groaned loudly, rousing himself into a relatively normal seating position. He most definitely not wanted to waste his eternal time on arts and crafts, but the idea of Wilbur sulking for days after ruining the said project was even more headache-inducing, and, all things considered, frankly depressing.

“You got the blueprint with you?” he asked, and Wilbur’s face lit up as much as it was visible onto his grayed, translucent skin. He nodded his head happily and began digging in the backpack, dumping out the torches and random trinkets he collected on the way back. He looked like a child in a candy store, and Shlatt found himself wondering about his friend’s source of energy. All in all, the purpose of a ghost was to… haunt, right?

It’s not like he gave a shit about that rule. For Shlatt, the afterlife was just eternal naptime, where his throat didn’t burn and his head didn’t threaten to explode every four hours or so until he made it go away through means he couldn’t quite remember.

Wilbur handed him a folded piece of paper, just a little bit soggy from the man’s passage through the barrier between worlds. Having shaken it off a bit, Shlatt opened the parchment, and instantly his eyebrows shot up in surprise.  
“Will, this is literally a step by step drawing on what to do. What do you not understand?” he sneered, and the questioned spirit scratched his head, a sheepish expression on his face.  
“The thing is, Shlatt!” he muttered as he plopped down on the log next to the man who was now eyeing him with absolute disappointment. “I have the idea of what to do! But they don’t say anything about glue, nails, or anything, so I’d just be sitting there trying to put it together like oversized Lego blocks.” He laughed, and Shlatt just tapped the paper again, bringing Wilbur’s attention to the drawing.  
“That’s because you don’t need glue and shit. You need to make ridges that would fit into each other. Like making a Christmas tree out of paper.” The tapping got more intense as Shlatt tried to find a proper way to explain it, his frown getting more and more crooked as he struggled. “Man, I hate to say it but you really just gotta bang the iron against iron until it fits.”

“This sounds like something I heard before.”  
“Does it, now?”

A ghost of a smile danced on Shlatt’s face as he scooped up eight or so pieces of iron and gathered it into his lap. Wilbur leaned over, looking at his hands as he worked, fitting the irregular chunks into each other, creating a cylindrical shape. He felt around for a torch, but Wilbur was a step ahead, already pushing it into his awaiting hand. With the source of light secured, the lantern was nearly done.  
“Pass me the light, Will.” He asked, extending his hand towards the man next to him again.  
“Oh. Oh, the light. Oh, um. Give me a moment.”  
  


If Will went back into the overworld to borrow flint and steel, Shlatt wouldn’t be able to tell, since he was too preoccupied with keeping himself from knocking him out beyond limbo and straight into heaven.

***

“Done. Don’t ask me for anything ever again.”

The lantern shone brightly at their feet, basking the log in warm, yellow light. Wilbur looked at it in wonder, a smile dancing on his face. He grabbed it gently, bringing the light closer to his face. It was a weird feeling; hot and cold at the same time – it was like touching hot water, but it doesn’t burn your skin, instead spreading within your body, through your every nerve. Wilbur could only assume this is how warmth felt, and yet the fire dancing in front of him made him… unnerved?

Regretful?  
  
“How many of these are you making?” Shlatt asked, already settling back on the log, hoping for another fruitful nap. Wilbur snapped out of his little moment, lost just for a second.  
“Twenty? Twenty-five? I don’t know how big the plaza is going to end up, so I was hoping to get a lot of them.” He said as he set the lantern down in a place from which he could easily see it and use it as an example. After looking at it for a good minute, he attempted his own lantern, following Shlatt’s directions as well as he could. It was a clumsy effort, but one that Wilbur was putting his entire heart in, and soon there were two lanterns, one next to another, basking both of the specters in a gentle glow.

The limbo was as silent as ever as Wilbur meticulously crafted one lantern after another, making sure not to waste any supplies. Even though Shlatt said he was going to sleep, he stayed half-awake, making sure that Wilbur wasn’t completely messing up the blueprints from under his half-lidded eyes. Wilbur started humming a tune that felt almost too familiar for comfort, and with a deep sigh, Shlatt spoke, hoping to stop the melody.

“So your son, yeah? How is he doing?”

Wilbur’s movements stopped instantly, as he froze up, flint and steel hovering over the torch. Touched a nerve? Good. At least he stopped singing.

“He’s getting adopted, Shlatt. Eret’s adopting him.”

Ah shit, he was hoping for a not emotional, casual conversation. He dragged his hands down his face, noticing that Wilbur slumped in his seat, flint and steel forgotten. Ever so reluctantly, he hoisted himself back up, lamenting his lost free time.  
“Isn’t that a good thing? He needs someone to take care of him now that you’re… You know. Dead.” He asked, and Wilbur snapped his head back to look at him, his expression unreadable.  
“But I’m not gone! I’m here! The only difference between me and Eret is that he hasn’t been stabbed to death by his own father.” He clenched and unclenched his hand as if checking if he was still there. “That and he can be touched.”

“Will, you’ve no idea if you’ll be able to stay around forever.” Shlatt said, and Wilbur shook his head. “Don’t you think you’re being selfish?”  
“Selfish? He’s my son, Shlatt! I raised him, I watched him grow; Is it selfish to want to be in his life?” he shouted, and his heart was turbulent, the pleasant and warm persona he usually radiated now muddled with anguish. The lantern tipped to the side, and it fell apart, the small chunks of iron scattering on the ground. “I want him to be happy Shlatt! I really do, but- I don’t know, is this my repentance for what I did when I was alive? I can’t even remember what I did, I just know I got stopped-“  
“Slow down. You’re ruining the materials.”  
“Oh.”  
  


With a long, defeated breath, Shlatt slid off the log, sitting down on the ground next to Wilbur. Swiftly, he fixed the ruined lantern, and set it aside, beyond Wilbur’s grasp, before reaching for another set of nuggets. He worked in complete silence for a moment, making lantern after lantern, thinking about what to say; he wasn’t a therapist and he most definitely did not know what Wilbur did, since he died before that happened. Still, It didn’t hurt to try.

Whether he liked it or not, he only had Wilbur now, and seeing him in pain made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

“Did Fundy say he wants to get adopted? Or is it just a rumor you heard?” he said, and Wilbur shook his head, his hands finally stable enough to start making another light. He stayed silent for a short while, before answering, his voice low, defeated, and quiet.  
“Eret and Fundy are both on board. Phil only needs to sign the papers.”  
The torch sparked to life, and Wilbur looked at the flickering light for a moment, his head full of thoughts that tore him from the inside.  
“That sucks.”  
“Like you’d know.” The man muttered, reaching for a fresh pile of iron. “You said before that you don’t remember anyone at all. How would you know how this feels?” he asked, and Shlatt felt something hot and stinging gathering in the pit of his stomach. It was something he repressed a long time ago, something he shouldn’t have remembered. Wilbur explained to him one day, that they both probably only retained happy memories; the thing that was now knocking onto the back of his mind was anything but pleasant.

“I think I’d know.” He spoke before he thought, and Wilbur stared at him with wide eyes, completely dumbfounded. Shlatt pressed his lips together until they went completely numb, still unsure if he should open that last gate, one that kept him at peace and in complete oblivion. Still, if he stepped into the swamp, he should probably keep walking, or he’d get stuck, unable to speak about it ever again.  
“What are you talking about, Shlatt? You always told me that you don’t remember anything...”

“There was someone… Someone I think I considered my son at one point.” He spoke, his voice unusually low and quiet. The man next to him has long forgotten the half-assembled lantern, instead turning to face Shlatt completely, his hands folded in his lap patiently. “I remember… I remember having a political party, winning at some point. I had two people on my side, one of them clearer than the other.”  
His hands were working robotically, putting together a lantern after a lantern in a valiant attempt to make himself look more composed. Wilbur just stared.  
“One of them- One of them left on his own, I think it was my fault, I think I did something wrong and that’s okay, I get it. The other one though-” he paused, and brought the lantern closer to his face, one stubborn piece not wanting to stay in place. “He always did what I asked him to, he had good ideas and he was just all around a good kid, you know? I can’t remember his face, even though I’m trying so hard.”

“So he wasn’t your biological son?” Wilbur asked, plucking the lantern from Shlatt’s hands. A long, thin crack ran along the edge which he squeezed just a little bit too tight, and with a sigh, Wilbur set it aside, deeming it unable for use.  
“No. At least I don’t think so. Then again, I can barely remember him at all. I just know he was shorter than me. And younger. And his voice was completely different. And-”  
“You remember quite a bit!”  
“I’m not proud of it.”

Wilbur was beyond confused. From the perspective of a father, to remember anything about a person they care about would be a source of great joy, wouldn’t it?  
Then why Shlatt looked so… Conflicted?

“Why?” he asked simply, and Shlatt’s face tensed even further. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”   
“No, it’s just-” he threw his head back in disgruntlement, running his hands through his hair. “-I’m just very painfully aware that I fucked up something very, very bad because I don’t remember him being in my life after a certain point until I die. I think I hurt him, Will, and I didn’t get to take it back before I died.” He said, finally getting the one thing that was biting him ever since he arrived in limbo, off his chest.  
“Just like me, then.” Wilbur mused, rolling an iron nugget between his frostbitten fingers. Shlatt laughed, staring at his friends through tired eyes.  
“I’m nothing like you Will. You’re actually trying.”  
“There’s always time to try, you know? Especially in our case, we got a lot of it.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, calmly assembling the lanterns. Soon the small puddle of iron was gone, and the torch was used up, a small army of simple lanterns gently arranged on the grass in front of them. Shlatt looked at his hands for a moment – they were rough and his skin was hard from years of holding weapons, building, and tearing things down. He did so much during his life, and yet he remembered so little, most of it painful.

“I just wish I could apologize. I realize that I sound like a fucking sap, but I just can’t stop thinking I screwed up big time.” He finally said, and with that, all that he wanted to say was off his chest. He felt lighter, and yet so sad.  
“Would you like me to find him for you? If you don’t want to go meet him I can at least pass on a message?” Wilbur asked, and for a second Shlatt seriously considered taking him up on the offer. Still-  
“No. I don’t deserve it, Will. This is my repentance.”  
Wilbur smiled sadly.  
“As you want, Shlatt.”

The sun was in the same place as always on the horizon, the limbo was quiet and peaceful, and Wilbur Soot was gathering up the lanterns gently in his arms. The two friends stayed in comfortable silence, only the clinking of metal against metal ringing out like an unsung song in the ever-spreading plains.

“Fundy needs a father. And I need to make up for what I’ve done.” Will spoke suddenly, bringing Shlatt’s attention back to him. With all the lanterns carefully packed in his backpack, and some in his arms, he turned to his friend, a somber smile on his face. “Our talk helped me a lot, you know. Thank you.”  
“I literally just bitched about being sad, Will, you don’t have anything to thank me for.”  
Will laughed, and it was a pleasant sound, one that Shlatt hasn’t heard in a long while.  
“Still, it gave me a bit of hope. I’ll talk to Phil, make sure Eret can take care of him- I can still be in his life. I don’t want to give up.” He adjusted the straps on his bag pack and smiled, this time without the underlying pain.  
“Godspeed! Let me know if you need to make any more lanterns to get on your son’s good side.” Shlatt grinned, and Wilbur laughed back.“Shut up.” His body already started dissipating in the air as he shot one more comment towards his eternally tired friend. “Oh, and the white hair looks good on you, buddy.”  
“Thanks. It feels nostalgic.”  
  


_Good evening!  
It’s evening?  
Yeah! The lanterns look amazing, would you like to come see them with me?  
No, not really.  
Just for a while?  
  
Just for a moment._

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO BEFORE YOU JUMP ME- Yeah I love the unclcedad shlatt headcannon how did you guess? I don't think shlatt would be able to be the ruler for a long time because of his illnesses, and Q would be too much of a wild card to put in power, so... Tubbo. Also Tubbo is naturally a good-natured guy so it's hard not to like him. You know. Just let Shlatt be a positive figure ONCE. 
> 
> Anyways! I hope you enjoyed this. If you want to make me feel bad about this fic, follow me @SummoningFailed on twitter! I cry a lot.


End file.
